


Rendering Death and Forever

by Provocatrixxx



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, BDSM, Bondage, Dominance, Flogging, M/M, Masochism, Predicament Bondage, Rope Bondage, Sadism, Submission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-13
Updated: 2014-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-05 03:46:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/718528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Provocatrixxx/pseuds/Provocatrixxx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>John can feel the blush burning up his face, stomach clenched tight. It’s not that he’s ashamed, exactly, but going to a Dom with the desire to be whipped is a little different to standing in front of him and articulating it. He closes his eyes on a long blink, feeling Sherlock step fractionally into his personal space. It’s a game, he tries to tell himself, it’s just a trick to intimidate him. When he opens his eyes again, it doesn’t feel like a game at all.</i>
</p><p>AU in which Sherlock is a Pro-Dom and John is an unlikely customer.</p><p>John is out of sorts after returning from Afghanistan. Harry sends him off to a discrete Dom service in Baker Street...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing [Teahigh](archiveofourown.org/users/teahigh). Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own.
> 
> _nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals  
>  the power of your intense fragility:whose texture  
> compels me with the color of its countries,  
> rendering death and forever with each breathing_
> 
> _ee cummings - somewhere I have never traveled_

John runs his thumb over the the scrap of lined paper in his jacket pocket. It has gone soft and slightly fluffy with his fussing, folds almost worn through so that it tears slightly when John pulls it out and opens it up. The elegant loops of Harry’s hand writing have smudged a little, the ink having not had quite enough time to dry before she had folded it and pressed it into his hand like a dirty secret. He supposes it is really. There are only six words on the paper, and John knows them by heart now, they play over in his mind, taunting him in the hours when he is too late to sleep and too early to rise. He reads over them again anyway, just to be sure:

_221b Baker Street.  
Knock three times._

There’s a noisy cafe, and then beside it a plain black door, marked only by the gold numbers above the knocker. 221b. John takes a steadying breath and knocks three times.

There is a moment before anything happens, and when the door finally swings open, it is something of an anti-climax. The woman who opens the door is probably just shy of 50, dressed sensibly in a dark blue tea-dress and a pale pink cardigan. There’s an embarrassed apology on the tip of John’s tongue, but the woman opens the door wide and steps back to let him in with a welcoming smile.

“Hello there, you must be John?”

Nodding, John allows her to lead him through a nondescript hallway and into a quiet office with a large desk and a few comfortable chairs. He sits when she directs him into one, trying to find anything at all to say.

“Mrs Hudson!” The voice that calls down the stairs sounds impatient and commanding, and John is momentarily startled by the rudeness. Mrs Hudson has a loving-sparkle in her eye as she turns away from him, though, and John forces himself to relax again.

“I’ll just be a moment, dear,” she tells him, bustling out of the room, “make yourself comfortable.”

Left alone, John has to fight a sudden urge to laugh at the domesticity of it all. Harry had assured him that this place was discreet, but he feels more like he is about to be interviewed for a serving position in a tea shop than to ask a stranger to whip him until he bleeds.

The small front office is comfortable and not the least bit threatening, a solid desk sitting at the back of the room with a few filing cabinets behind it and a half-open door through which John can just make out a tiny kitchen. It feels mundane, ordinary, and John relaxes a little in spite of himself, some of the coiled tension seeping out of his spine.

“I’m so sorry about that!” Mrs Hudson hurries back in a whirl of colour and motherly charm. “He’s so demanding, that one.” Her grin is full of affection, and John feels the corners of his own mouth turn up to mirror her expression. “Let’s get down to business then.”

She guides him through the forms quickly and efficiently, laying out the rules and having him sign everything in triplicate. It’s a little like being back in the Army, and the rhythm of it combined with her gentle and competent demeanor soothes him still further.

“Right, well, that’s all in order then,” she says eventually, gathering the papers up and wandering over to the filing cabinets. “Sherlock should be with you in just a moment.”

“Thank you,” John says, clasping his hands together just tightly enough to hide the tremor in his left hand.

The man who walks through the door less than a minute later makes John’s mouth go dry. He is tall and slender, his tight-fitting purple shirt showing off his pale skin, the lean muscles of his back. He strides into the room like a predatory creature, all lithe grace and confidence, and John straightens in his seat automatically, spine going ram-rod straight. The man, Sherlock, John assumes, looks him up and down appraisingly.

“Iraq or Afghanistan?” he asks, a slight smile playing over his lips, his startlingly green eyes fixed unblinkingly on John’s own. John swallows reflexively, a tiny spark of worry glowing hot in his stomach. He had been so careful to keep that information out of the forms, and Harry wouldn’t have mentioned his past when she made the booking, surely.

“Afghanistan,” he answers after a moment, and is cross that he can’t quite match the natural command of Sherlock’s tone.

Sherlock’s smile widens just a little, clearly proud of himself for having been proven right. John fights the urge to run.

He doesn’t run. Instead, he follows Sherlock up the stairs, concentrating on the thick blue carpet rather than the mesmerising sway of Sherlock’s hips, the way his arse is perfectly framed by his tight black trousers.

There’s a severe looking woman with dark hair standing on the landing, dressed from head to toe in latex, her long hair pulled up into a high ponytail. She backs through a door to let them pass, and John catches a glimpse of a small, light room set up like a consulting room in a doctor’s surgery. It strikes him that this whole thing is absurd, but then Sherlock is pushing another heavy door open and ushering him through.

The dungeon, because that is surely what it is, is not quite how John imagined it would be. There is no lingering smell of sex or sweat, and it is decorated in a tasteful black and white wallpaper. All the various tools and fittings are pushed away into the corners of the room, the bolts in the ceiling painted to match the brushed gold light-switches and side-lights. The overall effect is far more like a sitting room than a play room.

“Not what you expected?” Sherlock’s voice is clipped, but smooth, and John can’t quite hide the shudder that goes down his spine, the feeling of being about to step into something dangerous.

“It’s... tasteful,” he says eventually, standing square in the middle of the room and turning to face Sherlock. “So, where do you want me?”

“That rather depends,” the tone of Sherlock’s voice is playful, sitting just shy of teasing.

“Depends?” John forces himself to stand his ground as Sherlock stalks towards him, keeping his back straight and his shoulders square in spite of the height difference between them.

“On exactly what you want me to do to you.”

John can feel the blush burning up his face, stomach clenched tight. It’s not that he’s ashamed, exactly, but going to a Dom with the desire to be whipped is a little different to standing in front of him and articulating it. He closes his eyes on a long blink, feeling Sherlock step fractionally into his personal space. It’s a game, he tries to tell himself, it’s just a trick to intimidate him. When he opens his eyes again, it doesn’t feel like a game at all.

“I want you to whip me, “ he says, forcing his voice to stay steady, to give the illusion of calm. One glance into Sherlock’s eyes tells him that he has seen right through him.

“As you wish.”

John breathes hard through his nose as Sherlock turns away and busies himself with something in the corner.

“Take your clothes off,” he orders, throwing the command over his shoulder, “you can pile them on the red chair.”

Folding his clothes is familiar enough of an action to allow John to find his centre again, and he pads back to the middle of the room completely naked, feet making soft sticky noises on the plastic floor tiles. Sherlock has pulled the cover off a wooden contraption secured to the short wall at the end of the room. There are cuffs for his hands and feet, padded leather affairs with what looks like sheepskin on the inside.

“Come here,” Sherlock says quietly, and John goes without argument, forcing himself to concentrate on his breathing as he nears the contraption. “For today, I’ll stop if you tell me to,” Sherlock says, settling a hand into the small of John’s back to guide him closer. His hand is warm, long fingers just curling into the curve of his waist just a little. John feels his heartbeat jump in his chest at the contact and closes his eyes, allowing Sherlock to guide his arms into place.

There are handholds, and John grips them firmly, watching Sherlock buckle the leather over his wrists. The restraints are tight, but not uncomfortably so; they barely have any give when John tugs at them. Sherlock crouches on the floor beside him and catches hold of his left ankle, lifting it carefully and moving it over to the cuff there. His grip is strong, the very tips of his fingers resting against John’s ankle bone. John has to fight to suppress the shiver that runs down his spine.

Being fully restrained means that John is slightly off balance, not quite enough to leave him hanging from the cuffs, but just sufficient that he’s aware of it, that his body is constantly trying to correct his centre of gravity.

“Remember,” Sherlock’s voice is a quiet purr now, and John can feel it sliding warm and sweet over the skin behind his ear, “I’ll stop if you ask me to.”

There’s a hint of a challenge there, and John closes his eyes and resolves to hold out against whatever Sherlock gives him.

The silence between Sherlock’s hands leaving him and the first flutter of soft leather against John’s shoulder blade could have swallowed an ocean. John’s pulse is fast and heavy in his ears, his hot breath filling the space between his head and the wall, until his whole world feels stuffy and tense. When Sherlock touches him with the crop, it is like a spark of electricity racing down his spine. This is the moment of truth, and it stretches out before him, as steady and unblinking as Sherlock himself. John braces himself for the first strike.

It doesn’t come. Instead, the soft, slightly cool leather strokes down his back, following the line of his spine to tap lightly against his right arse cheek, barely more than a tickle. He thinks Sherlock is using a riding crop. Harry keeps a similar one in her utility room, a wide leather tongue at the end of it. The crop taps at his left arse-cheek this time, just on the underside of the curve. It is a harsher strike, but it still barely even smarts.

John opens his mouth to protest - to explain that he isn’t a princess, that he came here specifically for pain - when Sherlock strikes. The blows are so sudden and so hard that John’s mind can’t track the number of them. They pull the blood to the surface of his thighs and arse, warming the skin and leaving a sting which spreads outwards from the many points of contact. Just when it builds to a point approaching painful, it stops altogether and John realises that he has he has been holding his breath the entire time.

“Breathe,” Sherlock’s voice is distant, smooth. John obeys it without hesitation, forcing air into his lungs and relishing the fire that spreads through his damaged skin. When he has taken five deep breaths, Sherlock starts up with the crop again. The strokes feel more deliberate this time, as though he is choosing precisely where each one lands, creating some sort of criss-cross pattern on John’s thighs. It stings like nothing John has ever experienced before, and he grits his teeth until his jaw aches to keep from crying out. He is not ready for Sherlock to end it all, not yet.

The burn in his arse seeps through his skin into the base of his spine, and John slowly becomes aware of the deep ache of arousal, tangled with the sharper, brighter lines of the pain. His cock is hard where it presses against the cool wood, each new line of fire sending another spark through him, another wave of sweet acid into his legs and thighs. It is like the best sort of runner’s ache, and John allows himself to sag in the bondage a little, arching out to meet Sherlock’s crop as it falls relentlessly again and again.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice is too close all of a sudden, a cool hand brushing against the nape of John’s neck. He forces himself to breathe, tries to form words to answer, but is caught instead by the simple peace of Sherlock’s hand strong and steady on the back of his neck.

“Mmm?” he manages eventually, keeping his eyes closed, but turning his head a little just the same. Sherlock doesn’t answer with words, but his hand tightens fractionally on the back of John’s neck, and the silent reassurance is better than anything John has ever known.

He almost cries out when Sherlock steps away again, but remembers their deal at the last moment and catches himself before anything more than a groan can slip out.

This time it hurts from the first strike of the crop. The pain washes over him in waves until John is sure that each one of his synapses is fused, constant sensation rushing through him, his desire mixing with the pain until John is floating in a sea of sensation. He is vaguely aware of the cuffs at his wrists and feet, of the hardness of the wood against his cock, the steady, repetitive strike of the crop against his skin, but awareness slides in and out like the last threads of a dream on waking.

John is vaguely aware of Sherlock’s hands in his hair at some point, his head being forcibly turned, strong hands cradling his skull.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice is more urgent this time. John can feel the urgency in his veins. He tries to force his eyes open, but it is too much, so he headbutts Sherlock’s hand instead, hoping that the other man will get the message.

His arse and thighs are a sheet of fire now, the harsh sting of what must surely have been a thousand strikes layered and placed until everything burns.

“Enough,” he says slowly, and forming the word is like clawing his way through mud. Sherlock’s hands are steady on his head, holding him together, and John presses into them, letting the restraints take the whole weight of his body.

“That’s right,” Sherlock whispers, fingers stroking tentatively through his hair, “Let go now, John.”

As he tries to match his breathing to Sherlock’s, John feels something deep inside his ribs break, as though a part of him is cracking open. His arms are shaking from the tension, and he has no energy left to fight it.

“Let go,” Sherlock commands again, and John breathes out more deeply than he has in months, feeling every line that the crop has burnt into his skin, the sharp burn of it anchoring somewhere deep in his stomach. He feels whole again, strong and brave and helpless all at once.

Sherlock strokes his neck gently, with just the pads of his fingers. John concentrates on breathing, the simple in and out, lungs expanding and contracting, diaphragm, intercostals, collar bones. He imagines the oxygen flooding into his bloodstream, passing through his heart and on out to his fingers, down to his toes. His cock is still hard, throbbing against the wooden frame.

“OK?” Sherlock asks quietly after what feels like half a life-time.

“OK,” John repeats, trying for certainty and coming out a little more shaky. Sherlock crouches down to undo the ankle restraints and then curls a strong arm around John’s waist as he undoes the wrist cuffs, his movements fast and precise. John’s legs are shaking as though he just ran up a mountain, but he manages to centre his weight somehow, and only leans on Sherlock a little as they walk over to the wide leather armchair in the centre of the room.

Bending over the arm of the chair while Sherlock applies a cooling balm to his arse and thighs is far from the most dignified position John has ever been in, but he doesn’t have it in him to protest. He feels utterly exhausted, drained of energy, and yet more alive than he has been in weeks.

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asks him, hands migrating carefully up John’s back to rub at his shoulders.

“A little overwhelmed,” John admits, resting his head on his arms against the other arm of the chair. It feels good to curl in on himself, to allow himself this small vulnerability in the safety of this room.

“That’s perfectly natural,” Sherlock assures him, manipulating John’s shoulders and hips lightly, probably in order to check for motor functions. John allows himself to be cared for, trying to process the emotions warring in his mind while Sherlock’s hands slide over his shoulders and down his back. “You did well,” he murmurs quietly, and John allows himself to find genuine pride in Sherlock’s tone. “Do you need a minute?”

Ordinarily, John would have accepted the offer gladly, put himself back together in private, but he can’t quite bring himself to pull away; he’s not quite ready for Sherlock’s hands to leave his skin. Sherlock reads his silence perfectly, manoeuvring them until he is seated in the chair and John is on his knees, his head in Sherlock’s lap. For a long while, John lets himself float there, grounded only by Sherlock’s hands in his hair. He realises, eventually, that the room has been soundproofed, the only sounds he can hear being their breathing and the faint but steady thump of his own heart. He feels more peace than he has believed in for years.

When he is in control of himself again, John dresses slowly, glad that his jeans are tight enough not to chafe his sore skin. He feels lighter somehow, warm despite the relative chill of the hallway when Sherlock opens the door.

“Mrs Hudson will show you out,” Sherlock says, though he stops John in the doorway for a second and brushes a piece of lint off his jacket. “I’ll see you soon, John Watson,” he says, before turning sharply back into the room.

John is tempted to protest that he hasn’t made his mind up yet, that one session might have been all he needed, but it dies on his lips. He knows that he needs this. Shrugging more deeply into his coat as though it is armour, John heads back down the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The bruising fades quickly, and within a few days only the deeper marks are left, smudgy red streaks that have yellowed around the edges. John’s internal calm fades with them, as though the pain was anchoring it within him. Without it, he is lost again, wandering through a world that no longer wants or understands him._
> 
> After John leaves Baker Street, he struggles to come to terms with his emotions. Thankfully, Harry is on hand to steer him right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings for mention of substance abuse, general depressive headspace on John's part, and some kink shaming.**
> 
> Thank you to the lovely Antidiogenes People for the wars and encouragement, and especially [LWM](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lestradesexwife) and Aria for the read-through.
> 
> Apologies for the lateness of this chapter. Hopefully the next one will go up on time.

John walks most of the way home, only stopping to catch a cab once the rain soaks through his jeans and the cold starts to bite. He feels strangely exposed, as though Sherlock had somehow opened his rib cage and pulled his insides out for everyone to see. It is ridiculous of course. The people on the streets are far too focused on getting home even to notice him beyond stepping around him as he opens the door of the cab.

His arse and thighs still feel raw, but the pain is oddly soothing, quieting the noise in his head, and he is able to breathe unrestricted for the first time in what feels like months. The initial fire of it has spread into a deep and pleasant ache now, not unlike the pain of muscles well-used the day after a good run. It cradles him, his private little secret, flaring a little each time he shifts in his seat as the taxi takes a corner, tiny flashes of memory assaulting his mind. Sherlock’s harsh and steady strokes, the strength of his arm as he had laid John open, the gentleness of his fingers in John’s hair, the safety of that space between Sherlock’s thigh and the chair where John had rested his head and relearned gravity.

“143 mate?” The cabbie’s voice, softened by the intercom, breaks into his thoughts and John pulls his focus back up just as they round the corner into the cul-de-sack.

“Just here’s fine,” he says, fishing for his wallet.

The house is mercifully quiet, and John drops his keys down on the table, climbing up to his room undisturbed. Hot water will soothe his muscles and bring out all the bruising, so he wanders through to the bathroom. Harry has a gorgeously deep bath, free-standing with a roll-top and clawed feet. He starts the water and finds a bubble bath that smells spicy rather than sweet.

As he strips, he is caught by his reflection in the mirror. His left shoulder is still a mess of ugly red scarring, the skin twisted and warped by a tumbling bullet. He pulls his gaze away from it before his brain can catalogue the damage beneath the scar, the various ways in which rounds are designed to cause maximum damage to human targets. Instead, John lets his gaze slide down, marvelling at the redness of his arse, the horizontal lines across his thighs where the crop had hit.

There is a surprisingly small amount of damage for the pain that Sherlock had caused in him. John had expected welts and broken skin, and while his skin is indeed broken in some places, it is all the more interesting for the places in which it is not. Sherlock had clearly been aiming carefully, taking care not to hit the same area too often. As he reaches down and runs his fingers over the warm skin, John is caught by the care that is evident even in the pattern of his injuries. 

The thought stirs arousal deep within him, pooling warm in his belly as his cock begins to swell. He presses down experimentally on one of the darker bruises, feeling the pain spark through his nerves, his cock filling and starting to ache with the need for release. He hadn’t come from Sherlock’s whipping, though the urge had been there all along. It is renewed with full force now, and John allows himself small gasps of pain and arousal as he probes at his sensitive skin with his fingers. The sharpness of the ache seems to increase now that he can see the damage that has been done, his arse and thighs re-ignited with the sting of it. He closes his eyes and pictures the room again, recalls the feel of the restraints around his wrists, the soft tease of leather over his arse just before Sherlock had started in earnest.

John allows his other hand to wander down, just ghosting across his cock for now. He wants to draw it out a little, sink into each exquisite detail of his memories and burn them into his mind. He bites down on his lip as he recalls the heavy blows of the crop, the sheet of fire that had formed across his arse.

As he starts to stroke, John pictures Sherlock walking right into his personal space. How would he take John down? Would he move fast and try to pin John’s arms; or more slowly, coaxing John into doing as he said. John would do it, he’s certain of it, he’d obey just for the thrill of it, sink to his knees and let Sherlock push his face into the dirt. John forces his hand to slow a little, teasing and light, running his thumb over the head of his cock until it is just on the sweet side of painful, until he close enough to feel the orgasm sitting in the base of his spine, waiting on a hair trigger.

What would Sherlock do to him, if he had John at his mercy? Would he whip him again, harder maybe? A proper whip with a tail that would slice into John’s skin. Or tie him down and blind him somehow, claw at John’s skin with his perfect slender hands. Yes. John likes that idea best, Sherlock’s hands on him, Sherlock’s breath in the hollow of his throat, those piercing eyes cataloguing his every move, greedy and knowing. John would writhe for him.

He strokes himself more deliberately now, a slight twist of his wrist, thumb slipping over the head again and again until it is almost too much, until everything is sharp and sweet and he is teetering right on the edge of it. When he comes it is like everything he was holding onto floods over him at once, his orgasm taking him over until he can only ride the wave of it, feel the release rushing through his veins, flickering sensations of Sherlock’s hands clutching his thighs, Sherlock’s mouth closed around his cock.

John refuses to let his mind wonder if Sherlock would swallow him down. He cleans himself up carefully before turning the taps off and sinking into the warm and welcoming water of the bath. The heat of the water makes the pain flare again, but John closes his eyes and allows it to merge with the afterglow. He feels calmer than he has in months, the water lapping at his ears as he sinks down into it, lets the warmth creep back into his bones.

He closes his eyes and feels Sherlock’s fingers on the back of his neck again, anchoring him, putting him back together piece by piece while John knelt there on the floor broken and calm.

***

When he is done with his bath, John changes into loose jogging bottoms and a soft grey T-shirt. He has a few hours left yet before Harry is due back from work, so he makes himself some tea and a plate of toast, watching the birds flit between the two trees in the tiny garden. It is nice to be quiet, to not feel the urge to fill the house with noise. 

John crosses into the utility room to load his dishes into the dishwasher and finds his eyes inevitably drawn to the small purple crop hanging on a peg with the rest of Harry’s riding gear. It is worn through in some places, the purple and blue cover frayed and furry, and the leather tongue at the end of it has gone soft with age and overuse. He can’t help but run his fingers over it, closing his eyes and hearing the sound of it thrashing against his skin.

It doesn’t feel quite the same amongst the clean white tiles and the scent of washing powder. John tucks the crop carefully out of sight under the body protector and switches the dishwasher on. It is an anticlimax to return to the mundane realities of his life, to sit down at the kitchen table and pull up a job search on his laptop. John cradles his tea in his hands and forces himself to concentrate, turning on the radio to block out the distracting quiet.

“How are you?” Harry asks when she finally returns home.

“Calmer,” he says, and is grateful when she merely nods as though she understands. He’s pretty sure they won’t speak of it again.

***

The bruising fades quickly, and within a few days only the deeper marks are left, smudgy red streaks that have yellowed around the edges. John’s internal calm fades with them, as though the pain was anchoring it within him. Without it, he is lost again, wandering through a world that no longer wants or understands him. There are no jobs that will accept him - no-one wants a failed Medical Officer with a limp that’s all in his head and a dominant hand that shakes for no good reason. They certainly don’t want one who freezes up when a kid kicks a football across the road, or who drops to the ground when a motorbike backfires on a street corner.

Each rejection stings like a slap across the face and John cannot even run to keep his thoughts in order, to keep the nagging sense of despair from clawing at the inside of his skull. He is worthless now, a ruined shell of his former self, scarred and twisted and ugly. It is only Harry who keeps him from going the way of so many others, only his loathing at the state he sometimes finds her in that keeps him from looking for answers in the bottom of a bottle.

If he were a better brother, John would be finding a way to fix her. Perhaps he would sit her down and talk to her, help her to get her life back on track. But he feels like a fraud, and they have never been that close. Instead, they skirt around each other’s little hurts, turning their faces away from all the things they aren’t supposed to see. He makes her tea some mornings when he rises long before she finds her bed. He tidies the house, does the shopping, cooks her meals and boxes them up and into the freezer so that at least she won’t starve. And Harry... Harry seems to see exactly what John needs most. He should look into that. But he won’t.

Instead, he cleans the house from top to bottom, fixing everything he can on his way through. It feels good to be doing something practical, even if all he actually does is replace a few bulbs and tighten a few screws. It doesn’t quiet his mind enough though, and when the house is clean and there is nothing more to be done, John resumes his seat by the kitchen window, watching the rain thump against the glass.

Memories of his session with Sherlock haunt him periodically, merging with his nightmares occasionally until Sherlock’s face is a cruel mask, his hands becoming claws that reach for John’s eyes, disabling him completely. They are somehow not as bad as the waking dreams when John takes five minutes to get down the stairs of a morning and Sherlock’s expression becomes one of disgust. He is too broken to be Sherlock’s pet, too damaged and ugly for Sherlock’s care.

“You look awful,” Harry says when she gets in from work. John nods, but he hasn’t the energy to respond. He cradles his tea in his hands and watches her move around the kitchen, graceful and quick in her stockinged-feet. He envies her the mobility now, her ability to put herself back together when she choses, to be wanted by other people.

“How did you know what I needed?” he asks her before he can stop himself.

Harry turns to look at him, scrutinising him from her position over by the sink. She knows him too well, knows what he means by it, and John opens his mouth to tell her not to worry, to cancel his question, before she replies,

“You like to make people proud of you,” she says, turning the tap on to fill the kettle, “you don’t need to be babied, John, you never did. It irks you. I thought maybe he could fix that.”

“Thought?” It is a conversation they will only have the once, so John grits his teeth and waits for her answer.

“You don’t seem so enamoured with the idea,” Harry says, turning her back on him to set the kettle on its stand and set about making tea. Her shoulders are tense, as though she is finding this as difficult as he is. She takes a deep breath though, and John can see the skin on her knuckles going white as she grips a mug fiercely,bracing herself before she adds, “It’s fine, you know. Whatever you... need. It’s fine. If it helps you, it’s... fine.”

“Fine,” John repeats quietly, turning back to the rain. 

Harry is careful to exit the kitchen slowly, feigning casualness, but her hurried footsteps as she runs up the stairs are proof that she is just as wary as he is. Perhaps she ought to be, he is a doctor after all; if a patient mentioned seeking out physical pain as a way to quiet their mind, he would probably have them referred to a psychiatrist.

Perhaps he ought to refer himself. But John has had enough of therapy and counseling and people who tip-toe around him like he’s fragile. Like he’s broken. Harry’s right - it irks him to be treated as though he’s vulnerable.

He mulls it over for a moment more, contemplating the last cold dregs of his tea before standing and placing his cup beside Harry’s empty one by the kettle.

It doesn’t take him long to find the phone number he needs, and his mind is oddly calm as he types them into his phone, waits for the soft burr of it ringing on the other end.

“Mrs Hudson?” he says when a familiar voice answers, “It’s John Watson. I need to book another session.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Good,” Sherlock says, and John turns his head towards the sound, seeking him out without daring to open his eyes. Those strong fingers rest against his jaw again, and John moves with him, raising his face as though he is greeting the sun. “So strong,” Sherlock purrs, “I didn’t expect you to take that much.”_
> 
> John needs Sherlock desperately, he can only hope that Sherlock feels the same way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so very late with this. Real Life ate me for a while.
> 
> Thank you to the lovely Antidiogenes Club whose wars and encouragement finally forced me to finish this chapter.

“We’re going to play a game,” Sherlock tells him once John is naked and standing square in the centre of the room. He has the tail end of a rope in his hand, and John follows the line of it up to the ceiling where it runs through a fitting and back down to some cuffs. The shiver that runs down his spine makes the corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitch up in a smile.

John raises his arms obediently, taking deep steadying breaths as Sherlock presses into his personal space. He takes one hand and then the other, buckling them securely into the thick cuffs. He smells clean, and slightly spicy, dressed entirely in black today, the buttons on his shirt straining over his chest. John can feel the blush that heats his cheeks, and he closes his eyes as Sherlock tugs on the cuffs, as he runs his hands down John’s arms.

“Here are the rules,” Sherlock says, stepping back a little and beginning to pull on the free end of the rope. “For as long as you are on your toes, I am going to flog you.” He flicks his hand out and John sees a heavy flogger with leather tails waiting on the seat of the armchair. Sherlock takes a step towards it, and John’s arms are winched higher, until he can feel the tension in his shoulders. “If you sink down off your toes, I will stop.” He gives the rope another tug, and John reaches up, lets his spine lengthen out so that he is as tall as possible. “I will stop, and I will let you rest for a while.” When Sherlock tugs again, John is forced up onto his toes, swaying slightly as he tries to keep his footing. Sherlock smiles and ties the rope off, leaving him stretched out there as he goes for the flogger. “Do you understand, John?” he asks, taking the implement in his hand and running his long fingers through the tails.

“Yes,” John says, quietly, watching Sherlock stalk back across the room. It’s a challenge. John has to stay on his toes to keep his weight off his shoulders and arms, and Sherlock will flog him if he succeeds at that. He wants Sherlock to flog him, but more than that, he wants to be good at this - wants to prove himself to Sherlock.

“Good.” Sherlock stands in front of him again, squaring his own shoulders this time, before he reaches up and runs his hands up John’s arms again. “Safeword?” he purrs, straight into John’s ear.

“Cinnamon,” John says, trying to breathe evenly.

“Cinnamon,” Sherlock repeats before he steps back and circles John slowly.

The tension in the air is different this time. John’s body knows what’s coming and he tries to brace for it, locking the muscles in his legs and back. He almost jumps when Sherlock curls cool fingers around his hips, tugging just a little so that John shifts his weight and is suddenly balanced, albeit precariously, on his toes.

“Good,” Sherlock purrs, and his fingers brush against John’s skin as they withdraw. John imagines he can feel the trail of them across his skin, as though Sherlock has raised goosebumps in his wake.

Sherlock doesn’t draw the waiting out this time, just starts in with the flogger in fast heavy strokes that rock John in his bondage. It is a struggle to stay balanced on his toes, and John has to arch his back into the heavy thudding of Sherlock’s flogger, raising his arse obscenely to keep from falling over.

There is nowhere to hide this time, no frame to turn his face into to hide the impact of the blows. John is utterly exposed and vulnerable, his hips twisting with each sharp thud against his arse. Sherlock makes him dance, his blows calculated and careful. There is just enough slack in the bonds to allow John to twist away when the pain becomes too much, deflecting the blows over his shoulders and back until every inch of skin is aflame.

Sherlock is relentless, keeping up with every twist and turn of John’s hips, not giving so much as an inch. It hurts, more than John had ever imagined it could, and he drags hot little pants of air into his lungs, struggling to keep his balance as Sherlock tears him apart. It ought to be frightening, something to be borne out in the silence spaces of his mind, but all he can focus on is Sherlock and the strength of his arm and the accuracy of his blows.

John is harder than he has ever been before, drowning in the fire that sinks into his skin and rushes through his veins. His arms ache and his calf-muscles are screaming at him, the dull urgency of them overriding the hotter, sweeter burn of the flogger. He tries shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but Sherlock is too clever for him, the heavy leather tails curling around his chest, forcing him back to his feet.

“You can stop this whenever you want to,” Sherlock purrs, but it sounds like a threat.

John’s legs start to shake as he strains to remain on his toes, muscles fatigued and weakening by the moment. Sherlock’s blows have slowed a little, landing in even thuds all across John’s thighs and arse. It is a battle of wills now, and John can feel the sweat beading on his forehead, feel it prickly and damp in the backs of his knees. 

He feels himself sinking down into his heels before he is even properly aware of it, but his fatigued muscles refuse to take his weight again, and he is hanging by his wrists before he can catch himself. The flogging stops instantly and John’s whole body sings with the white-hot pain of the lashes he has already endured. Sherlock’s breathing is accelerated, and John times it against his own racing heartbeat, a steady anchor in the otherwise silent room.

Sherlock’s feet are quiet on the padded flooring. He walks a wide arc out to John’s side, eyes roaming freely over John’s body and John does his best to straighten himself up, trying to force his calves to tense again. It is futile however, and John is left hanging in the cuffs as Sherlock circles him, taking in every inch of him.

He trails the ends of the flogger of the soft skin of John’s stomach and John shudders involuntarily, trying to keep his breathing calm as Sherlock steps into his space. His fingers are strong and cool as they trail across John’s jaw, forcing him to raise his head until he is looking directly into Sherlock’s eyes.

“Good,” Sherlock says quietly, and John tries to turn the word over in his mind, to hear the meaning behind the pleasant rumble of Sherlock’s voice. He almost cries out when Sherlock pulls his hand away, but then cool fingers trail lightly down his chest, a whisper of touch that stops just short of his cock and leaves John desperate and broken and powerful all at once.

He fights to regain his footing, waiting until he settles in his bonds before forcing his exhausted calves to bear his weight once more. He won’t be able to hold out for long this time, but John Watson does not give in without a fight.

Sherlock takes a deep breath behind him, and for a second, John feels cool fingers ghosting over his arse before a firm hand sets his hips back into proper alignment, forcing him fully onto his toes. His calves spark with fire almost immediately, but John grits his teeth and forces his shoulders to relax, leaning into the first lick of the flogger as Sherlock starts up again, his blows slow and steady, every single one of them flooding straight to his cock.

His chin is pressed against his chest now, eyes shut tight to better concentrate on his world of pain.

“You can end this, John,” Sherlock says, landing a particularly vicious blow to the underside of John’s arse. “You can make it all stop, right now.” The next blow crosses over the first, twin lines of pain spreading out sharp and heavy and deliciously overwhelming.

For a terrifying moment, John teeters on the edge of something and it is like opening his eyes deep under the water, seeing the vast emptiness spread out before him. The pain is horrific and perfect all at once, rushing over his sharp edges and rendering them smooth. He barely registers the pull on his shoulders as his legs give way again.

The pain left behind by Sherlock’s flogger cloaks him like a blanket, wrapping around John’s body like a caress. He can barely breathe, can barely do anything beyond listen to the thunder of his heart rate and feel every bruise that Sherlock has left on his body.

“Good,” Sherlock says, and John turns his head towards the sound, seeking him out without daring to open his eyes. Those strong fingers rest against his jaw again, and John moves with him, raising his face as though he is greeting the sun. “So strong,” Sherlock purrs, “I didn’t expect you to take that much.”

John chances opening his eyes and is confronted with Sherlock’s face, achingly close to his own. Sherlock’s eyes are too bright and clear for John to focus on. His gaze slides down slowly, taking in the curve of Sherlock’s nose, the lush bow of his lips. He aches to lean forward and press his mouth against them, to seek comfort and release in soft kisses and warm tongue.

“I’m going to untie you,” Sherlock tells him slowly, his face still pressed far too close, strong fingers stroking the line of John’s jaw for a moment before he steps back and John is left cool and oddly bereft.

It hurts when his arms are released, and every step across the cool floor pulls at his aching calves. He lets Sherlock guide him over to a massage table and ease him face down onto the soft towel that’s laid there. The pain is less consuming this time, and John concentrates on the feeling of Sherlock’s hands sweeping up and down his shoulders and his back and his arse and his thighs. 

Sherlock is good with his hands. He is surprisingly gentle and mindful of all John’s little hurts, working the balm into John’s abused skin in long sweeps and passes. Although his fingers pause for a moment over the mangled scar on John’s shoulder, he doesn’t falter for more than a second. John closes his eyes and allows himself the luxury of feeling Sherlock’s hands running over him.

“I find it so interesting how easily people give in to pleasure,” Sherlock says quietly, and John turns his head a little to better listen to his voice. “The body has a myriad of defences against pain, so many different ways of dissipating stings and aches.” His voice is low and smooth, just as soothing as the long sweeps of his palms as they stroke down John’s back and towards his calves.

“But it is so defenceless against pleasure.” Sherlock curls his fingers carefully into the knot of muscles in the back of John’s left calf, rubbing steady circles with his thumbs until the muscles loosen and stretch. “It is so very easy to take a man apart with gentle touches and soft kisses. To overwhelm the body with sensation until it is arching into your every touch.”

John can feel every word vibrating through his ribs, as though his body has melted and become nothing more than a marionette under Sherlock’s skillful hands. He gives himself over to the sensation entirely, breathing deep and steady as Sherlock unlocks every muscle, running those gorgeous talented hands all over John’s back and thighs. It is like drifting in the ocean on a summer’s day and John loses all sense of time and purpose to the careful ministrations of Sherlock’s hands as he cares for John’s body.

It is a while before he realises that Sherlock’s hands have stilled, his palm resting warm and heavy on the nape of his neck. Their breathing is matched, he notices, though whether he has fallen into Sherlock’s rhythm or the other man has matched to his, he neither knows nor cares.

“John,” Sherlock says quietly, and John choses to hear a tinge of reluctance in his tone.

“Time to go,” John finishes, arching fractionally into Sherlock’s touch for a moment before he eases himself off the table. He takes his time getting dressed, wearing his inner peace like a heavy coat, wrapping it around him even as he pulls his jacket on.

“Thank you,” he says when Sherlock walks him to the door. It doesn’t feel like enough somehow, and they linger as they reach the doorway, as though there is something more to be said, but which neither has the work for.

“I’ll see you soon,” Sherlock says after a long moment, smiling as John fusses with his jacket and steps through the door. He can feel Sherlock’s eyes on him as he walks down the corridor, but the door is closed when he glances back before descending the stairs.

***

John carries his peace for five days before everything falls apart again.

It rains on Wednesday night. Heavy raindrops splatter against the window and John finds himself on the floor under his bed before he’s even properly awake. He thumps the slats of the bedframe in frustration, and revels in the burst of pain across his knuckles. There is no point in trying to sleep from here on out, thunderstorms seem to bring out the worst of his demons, and John is too fractious to risk meeting them again. Instead, he remakes the bed and creeps down the stairs to make the first of many cups of tea.

Harry finds him on his fifth cup of tea hours later, when the TV has run out of programmes and he is left watching a quiz-show with only the sign interpreter for company. His eyes are heavy with lack of sleep, but the storm still rages about the house, and he daren’t close his eyes just now.

He curls his hands around the fresh mug that Harry hands to him, letting the warmth seep into his palms for a while before sipping the hot tea.

“Haven’t seen you like this in a while.” Harry perches on the arm of the other sofa, her attention fixed on the flickering TV screen, though John knows she is scrutinising him from the corner of her eye. They used to drive for hours and talk like this, neither looking at the other.

“I haven’t felt like this in a while,” John admits quietly. Grey dawn is creeping under the heavy curtains now, but it brings no solace, and John feels scratchy impatience boiling under his skin. There are still bruises on his back from where Sherlock had flogged him, his calves are still stiff with the pressure of his own body-weight, but somehow it isn’t enough to soothe his angered nerves.

It occurs to him, suddenly and with perfect clarity, that there are parts of him which will always be broken, that he will forever carry damage which even the sharpest and cleverest of pain cannot fix.

He flinches when Harry’s hand lands on his shoulder, but she doesn’t move away, or even look surprised. They have fought this battle before, and John is absurdly grateful for her presence there, for the temporary strength she lends him. It is not enough forever, but it will see him through for now.

“I think I need to see him again,” John tells the sunlight where it spills onto the carpet.

“I don’t think that’s a bad idea at all,” Harry says.

***

Sherlock leads him to a smaller room this time, the floor carpeted and the furniture softly padded. Once he is naked, John waits in the centre of it quietly, listening as Sherlock moves about behind him. This room is not soundproofed like the other, and he can hear the muffled sounds of the cars on the street below them, the hum of pedestrians going about their day.

“You can’t speak today, John,” Sherlock tells him, stepping up behind him and resting his hands on John’s hips. He is warm through the thin material of his shirt, and John leans into him fractionally, revelling in the contact. He nods once, firmly, to show that he understands, closing his eyes to better feel the strength of Sherlock’s fingers. “I’m going to blindfold you now, and then I’m going to bind your limbs with rope.” Sherlock’s hands slide up John’s sides until he is almost cradling John to him, his chest pressed tight to John’s back.

They stay like that for a long moment, until John has matched Sherlock’s breathing once more, and the knots in his spine have loosened. Sherlock’s fingers trace swirling patterns over his skin as they withdraw, and John mourns their loss even as he feels a frizzon of anticipation run up his spine.

The satin that Sherlock ties over his eyes is cool and heavy, thick enough to utterly block out the light in the room. He follows where Sherlock’s hands guide him, closing his eyes under the heavy satin and relaxing into Sherlock’s steady grip on his arm, the warm palm in the centre of his back.

Sherlock sits him on the floor, his hands never quite leaving John’s body as he positions him. John takes deep and steady breaths, relearning his balance as he tries to hold the pose that Sherlock has set him in, his legs crossed and his arms held out in front of him, wrists together. Although he expects the rope, the weight of it is still something of a surprise, as is how tightly Sherlock wraps it around his wrists, so fast that John has no time to create any slack in, no time to create an escape for himself.

The panic rises startlingly quickly, and John flinches before he can get himself under control.

“Breathe,” Sherlock tells him, resting a hand on John’s shoulder, the pad of his thumb resting over John’s pulse as though he can feel the panic flooding John’s veins. “You’re safe here John,” he says, tapping a slow decrescendo with his thumb until John forces his breathing to slow and feels his heart-beat follow suite. He wants Sherlock’s hands on him, needs to feel Sherlock there with him in the darkness. 

Forbidden from speaking, John ducks his head, seeking Sherlock by the sound of his voice alone. His head makes contact with Sherlock’s arm for a moment, and he nuzzles there are best he can, desperately trying to get the message through. He almost purrs when Sherlock’s hand leaves his throat and travels upwards, cupping the back of his head and running his fingers through the short hair there.

“Do you want me to stop?” Sherlock asks quietly, his mouth inches from John’s ear, every word a soothing purr. John does want to stop. He wants to pull the rope from his wrists and climb into Sherlock’s lap. He wants to nuzzle into Sherlock’s collar and press his nose there, where he is sure Sherlock would smell warm and clean and safe.

“No,” he says after a long moment, and his voice sounds scratchy and vulnerable in the dark room. He presses into Sherlock’s hand where it strokes the back of his head, settling his weight a little better so that he is balanced and comfortable on the floor again.

“Trust me,” Sherlock says, low and steady, his hand curling around John’s nape and squeezing for a moment. This time, when the rope tightens around his wrists, John doesn’t flinch.

Sherlock winds the ropes around John’s arms, encasing them in knots and soft silk. He bends John’s elbows and secures John’s wrists to his shoulders, until his hands are raised in a mockery of prayer. Although he works in silence, he keeps one hand or arm in contact with John’s skin while he ties the knots, gentle pressure offering comfort and reassurance even as John adjusts to being off balance, his arms completely useless to him now.

“Good,” Sherlock says when he is done, testing the tension in the ropes before he kneels down behind John and rests his hands on John’s shoulders, thumbs tracing the rope that crosses over at the back of John’s neck. “I’m going to put you on your side now John.”

John relaxes into the ropes and lets Sherlock manipulate his body, amazed by how easily he is rolled onto his back and then over onto his side. It is easier to deal with the ropes in this position. His is cocooned by them rather than restricted, held rather than restrained.

“There you go,” Sherlock says, and John can feel the heat of him at his back, and he leans into the gentle sweep of Sherlock’s palm across his flank. It is peaceful to lie still and quiet without fear or being interrupted, and John sinks into it, relaxing into the warmth of Sherlock’s hands and the tightness of the ropes.

“I think you’re enjoying this,” Sherlock purrs, moving back for a moment and leaving an odd, lonely chill over John’s skin. He is back before long with more rope, however, and his hands skim down John’s legs before settling on his ankles. “I’m going to bind your legs now,” he says, before beginning to knot the ropes.

When Sherlock is done, John is truly helpless. Left with no option, he relaxes into his bondage, letting the ropes take the weight from his muscles, his feet tucked up beneath his arse and his knees roped to his elbows. He is curled into a fetal position like a child, at once utterly helpless and entirely uncaring. He could sleep like this, he realises, safe and held and unplagued by nightmares.

“There,” Sherlock says quietly, and John lazily tracks his movements across the room, hearing him sit down at John’s back, his skin shivering in anticipation of Sherlock’s touch. “There, John,” he says, resting a hand on John’s hip and stroking slowly up John’s side. “Rest now.”

Safe in the quiet room with Sherlock’s hands stroking lightly across his back, John finally succumbs to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _When Sherlock takes hold of his other wrist, John goes with it, keeping his eyes closed as Sherlock draws him closer, until John can smell his aftershave, hear the soft susurrus of Sherlock’s shirt as he turns John’s hands over._
> 
> _“What else do you want?” Sherlock asks, and his voice is soft between them, intimate and warm._
> 
> _John wants everything. He wants Sherlock to strip him down, to run those cool, assessing fingers across every inch of him, to hurt and soothe and mark him. It would be so easy to turn his hands in Sherlock’s grasp, to curl his fingers through Sherlock’s own and step firmly into his space._
> 
> John can't get Sherlock out of his head, and Harry's new-found happiness is only making it worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings for more masochism than usual**
> 
> My thanks to the lovely people of Antidiogenes for the encouragement, and anyone who's stuck with this fic without giving up on me. I'm so sorry for the ten month hiatus there.

Morning dawns bright and warm, and John allows himself the luxury of staying in bed for too long, pushing the duvet off his chest and spreading out in the little patch of sunlight that spills under his curtains. It’s quiet, and the calm of his first full night’s sleep in weeks rests deep and satisfying in his bones. Harry redecorated the house while he was out in Afghanistan, and the room that John stays in now is papered in pale gold and accented in rich mahogany. He feels better than he has in weeks, rested and calm, soothed by the quiet rather than enraged by it.

The marks from Sherlock’s ropes are long gone, their fibers too soft and Sherlock far too skilled to leave anything but the faintest of pressure indentations. John touches his wrists all the same, runs the tips of his fingers over his forearms and imagines the dark blue coils there. Phantom hands slide down John’s back and sides, and in the quiet he allows himself the indulgence of a fantasy.

Sherlock’s skin would be cooler than his, and he’d curl around John’s body, stomach pressed up tight against John’s back and their legs tangled together under the sheets. He wouldn’t be a morning person, John thinks, and turns over onto his side, imaging a soft protestation as he jostled Sherlock from his sleep. Those perfect curls would be crumpled, tangled around his face while he fought to stay asleep, and John imagines reaching his fingers out and pushing them gently back from Sherlock’s face.

He’d kiss him then, soft and sweet, just for the pleasure of feeling Sherlock come awake under his lips, mouth curving into a smile and opening to John’s tongue. Sherlock’s body is long and smooth, and he’d uncurl slowly, stretching out on the sheets and arching like a cat. Safe in his fantasy, John allows himself to envision pinning Sherlock’s wrists, wonders whether he’d go still, eyes wide, staring at John’s face. No. Sherlock would arch against John’s body, mouth quirked in a smirk, a challenge. They’d fight for it, John thinks, Sherlock using his height and John using his strength, tossing and turning on the bed, a slick press of hips, cocks rocking against each other and leaving hot, sticky trails over sleep-warmed skin.

John slides his hand down into his boxers, fingers curling around his cock, tracing over the slickness gathering at the head. He’s not ready to stroke just yet, too caught up in trying to picture the lines of Sherlock’s body, the particular set of expressions on his face.

He’d win eventually. John smirks, imagining Sherlock sprawled beneath him, hard against his hip. They’d kiss again then, lazy with the morning and the sunlight, setting up a rhythm, heat building and building between them. John allows himself to stroke then, pushes his knee out to the side as he presses his face into the pillows, clinging to the image of Sherlock in his mind. His orgasm almost takes him by surprise, streaking down his spine to burst, molten white, somewhere deep in his stomach.

The sunlight is warm on his back, cradling him even as the fantasy fades, and John pushes his nose further into the pillows, tries to imagine how dark Sherlock’s eyes would go as he rutted to completion against John’s hip. He bathes in the image for a while, letting the fantasy bleed out slowly, leaving him only half-satiated, boxers sticky and warm. When he climbs out of bed and into the shower, he can’t quite bring himself to meet his eyes in the mirror.

***

He makes it downstairs just as Harry is leaving for the day, looking polished and business-like in her grey court suit.

“There’s a message on the machine for you,” she tells him as he steps out of her way, picking a loose thread off her shoulder out of habit as he passes. Harry twists her face in a mock glare, and John can’t help but laugh at her. “Oh, and Clara’s coming over tonight. That’s still OK, right?”

There’s a blush high in her cheeks, but John can see the grin she’s biting back as she asks him.

“Of course it is,” he says, and can’t help but smile when her grin spills over.

He makes himself tea and toast and eats it leaning up against the sink. The house is largely tidy since he’s around most of the time to keep on top of Harry’s whirlwind of disorganisation. There’s still general maintenance to be done though, and John builds up a list in his mind, planning the menial tasks into his day to break up the monotony of online application forms and rejections by email.

The army hadn’t offered him resettlement training in the drama that was his injury and discharge. He hadn’t thought he’d need it, too determined to heal as fast as possible and appeal to the board. There’s a bitterness that sticks in the back of his throat when he thinks about it now, and John finds himself resettling his weight unconsciously, hiding the damage to his leg. His muscles still recognise the stance, and for a moment, his hands ache for the weight of a rifle, the comfort of an emergency where everything is action and there’s no time to worry about the future.

The mug slips from his grasp and crashes to the floor, smashing against the tiles and spilling mud-coloured tea across the floor. John stares down at it, watching the liquid rush along the joins in the tiling, slowing as it spreads. His hand is shaking in the corner of his vision, blurred and pale and alien. He swallows the last bite of his toast and goes to fetch the mop.

It takes him a good hour to clean the kitchen to his satisfaction, and by the time he’s done, both John’s mind and his hands are firmly back under his control. It’s not until he’s boiling the kettle for another cup of tea that he remembers to pick up the message on the answerphone.

It’s an invitation to an interview, and John has to scrabble for a scrap of paper to write down the details, pulse loud in his ears as he scribbles the time and address down. In the three months he’s been actively looking for work, this is the first time he’s got past the initial screening. When the message ends, he replays it again, just to be sure he’s got all the details right. He’s tempted to text Harry. She’ll phone as soon as she’s able and then they can laugh about it together, like they did when John made the school’s first fifteen and she walked half a mile just to meet him at the school gates and hug him. 

But they’re not kids anymore, and Harry has too busy a day for John to bother her with such a trivial matter. He slips the scrap of paper into his pocket and wanders up the stairs to start on the laundry.

***

Clara is delightful. She’s a tiny brunette with a pixie-cut and an infectious grin and John decides he likes her on sight, mostly for the way she makes Harry smile and tuck her feet up under her on the sofa. They order pizza because it’s Friday and eat sprawled out in the living room with tumblers of red wine and the TV turned down low. Clara is the perfect company, easy going and infectiously happy, and she regales them with stories about her week training with the paramedics as a junior doctor.

In return, John finds himself talking about Sandhurst and the disasters that had occurred on their first exercise.

“It was pitch black in those woods, you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face,” he says, bringing his own hand up to demonstrate and narrowly avoiding tipping his glass over, “and we knew the enemy were over there somewhere, but damned if we could see anything. But we keep pressing forwards and the staff were hurrying us along, really pushing the urgency on us, shouting and jostling us and when we finally heard the gunfire we were half-convinced it was real.”

He maps out the terrain with his hands as he talks, recalling the steep hillside and the muddy stream they’d crashed across, half-blind with the darkness and lack of sleep. Everything had been so complicated then, until just staying on your feet felt like an achievement.

“And for a moment, we all froze up like deer, all panicking. And the staff start screaming at us to get down, to start putting down fire, listen for fire control orders. And Alex gets really into it, throws himself down into the mud and shouts out where the enemy are, that sort of thing. So he pulls his rifle up to start shooting back, only he’s not taped up the straps on his helmet.”

Clara’s leaning forward in her seat, one hand on Harry’s thigh as she listens intently, her eyes bright with wine and amusement.

“And when he starts shooting, the strap gets caught in the rifle, and it’s dragging his head forward. Only he doesn’t think to take his finger off the trigger. So he’s going thunk thunk thunk, bashing his head against the rifle, and all the while the colour sergeant’s shouting at us, getting us organised to move forwards, and he grabs Alex by the back of his kit and drags him to his feet.” 

He has to stop to laugh, remembering Alex’s wide-eyed panic, the sound of his helmet bashing against the rifle with each round.

“We got half-way through the attack before the staff even realised he was stuck!”

Even Harry can’t help but laugh at that, her hand settling in on Clara’s waist as though she’s testing the waters. Clara leans back into the touch and all of a sudden, John feels like he’s intruding. Clara is still perched on the edge of the couch, laughing at John’s impression of Alex’s helmet strap stuck in the workings of his rifle, but the smile on Harry’s face has nothing to do with John’s story.

“I think I’m going to turn in,” John says quietly, draining the last of his wine. He gathers up the pizza boxes as he says goodnight to them both, and tries not to watch as Clara’s hand slides higher up Harry’s thigh.

He tries to drop off to sleep before they come up, but his bed seems to have ossified over the course of the day and it’s impossible to get comfortable. Eventually, he settles on his back with his arms up behind his head and tries to map Afghan stars against the smooth white ceiling. 

John hears them on the stairs shortly after midnight, their voices soft and their footsteps light as they creep past his door and down to Harry’s room. He turns onto his side and presses his head against the pillows, but Clara’s soft giggles and Harry’s deeper, happy laughter spills through the darkness regardless. She hasn’t laughed like that in years, and John allows his mouth to curve into a smile even as buries himself deeper under the covers, imagining cool hands settling over his hips and dark curls tickling the back of his neck.

***

He tells Harry about the interview over breakfast, and she jumps up out of her seat to hug him, clinging to him for longer than necessary.

“I’ll be out of your hair soon,” he says, and means it as a joke, but he holds her tight and breathes in the faint scent of shampoo in her hair for long enough for them to put themselves back together.

Clara wanders down an hour or so later, and Harry teases her into a chair with soft kisses, ruffling her hair back into order. The ease with which they touch each other tugs at John, and he busies himself with emptying the dishwasher while Harry fusses and makes coffee and toast and Clara slowly wakes up, blinking and mussed, chin resting on her arms at the kitchen table.

She’s wearing one of Harry’s long t-shirts, and when they all sit down with another round of tea, he can smell Harry’s shampoo in Clara’s hair. He touches his wrists instinctively, wishing, not for the first time, that the ropes had left some mark on him, something small and slightly painful to counteract the sudden ache in his ribcage.

He waits until they head into town on a shopping trip before calling Baker Street, biting his lip when Mrs Hudson answers with a cheery “hello dear, I was expecting you to call.”

***

John walks to Baker Street slowly, taking a moment to fix his appearance before lifting the knocker and smiling a little to himself at the sense of deja vu it gives him. It’s Sherlock who answers, and John’s mouth goes dry for a moment as he takes in the white shirt, open at Sherlock’s throat, and the sleeves rolled military-neat to his elbows.

“John,” Sherlock says with a nod, stepping to the side just enough to allow John inside. His shoulder brushes against Sherlock’s chest as he steps into the hallway, and John can feel the heat pouring off him even through his own thick jumper.

“Go straight upstairs,” Sherlock tells him, “the main room. On the right.”

John takes the stairs slowly, mindful of his leg, and follows the winding hallway down to the large room they’d first played in. The air inside is cool, and John can hear the faint shh of the air-conditioning as he closes the door behind himself. The urge to sink down onto his knees is overwhelming, as though his body craves the comfort of Sherlock as much as his mind does. It’s almost disconcerting, and John forces himself to walk around the room instead, taking in the various frames and fittings, the cupboards set into the wall.

Sherlock is leaning in the doorway when John turns back around, and John forces his muscles to lock tight to keep from starting with surprise.

“Hello,” John says, keeping his voice steadily neutral.

For a moment, Sherlock doesn’t react, his face set in a harsh frown as though he was examining John and does not appreciate being interrupted. The frown is gone almost as soon as John registers it though, replaced by a smooth smile as Sherlock pushes off the doorframe and pads into the room. With anyone else, John would have resettled his weight, flicked his chin up in answer to the challenge of Sherlock’s poise. He forces himself to temper it though, waiting rooted to the spot as Sherlock prowls forwards, still studying him, though less intently than before.

“What can I do for you today John?” he asks, and the smooth purr of it runs straight down John’s spine to light on fire low in his belly.

“I want you to leave marks,” John says, and allows himself a second to feel victorious when Sherlock’s expression stutters. Even the flogging on their first appointment had been calculated to cause pain without damage and Sherlock is an expert at it. John almost expects Sherlock to double-check, to negotiate the damage down to a few lines and bruises. But Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on his face, stepping into John’s space and looking intently.

“We’ll start with bruises,” Sherlock says, reaching out and curling his fingers around John’s left wrist. He raises it to chest level, his fingers cool against John’s own as he examines John’s hand, the skin around his wrist. John’s pulse races at the contact, even more so when Sherlock brushes his fingers over the web of veins in John’s wrist, and he closes his eyes for a moment to better feel the touch.

When Sherlock takes hold of his other wrist, John goes with it, keeping his eyes closed as Sherlock draws him closer, until John can smell his aftershave, hear the soft susurrus of Sherlock’s shirt as he turns John’s hands over.

“What else do you want?” Sherlock asks, and his voice is soft between them, intimate and warm. 

John wants everything. He wants Sherlock to strip him down, to run those cool, assessing fingers across every inch of him, to hurt and soothe and mark him. It would be so easy to turn his hands in Sherlock’s grasp, to curl his fingers through Sherlock’s own and step firmly into his space.

“I don’t know,” he says at last, opening his eyes and watching Sherlock watch him. He wants to hurt, but doesn’t at the same time. It’s not the pain of it he’s seeking now, but the oblivion of it, the scarlet pressure in his bones as his body fights and struggles and finally acquiesces. “I want it to hurt,” he decides and Sherlock holds his gaze for a moment before nodding and dropping John’s hands.

“Clothes off,” Sherlock commands, and John obliges quickly, turning to place his folded clothes on the wooden chair in the corner of the room. The chill of the room pebbles his nipples and raises goosebumps across his skin, and John is strangely aware of his nakedness as he pads into the centre of the room. He drops his gaze, looking down at the marks on the padded floor and trying to trace a pattern in them.

“Come here,” Sherlock says eventually, and John turns on his heel as though he’s back on the drill-square, following the sound of Sherlock’s voice. He’s standing by the wall in a space unoccupied by brackets or framework, though there’s a small table just off to his right with a heavy flogger resting on it. John shivers a little at the sight of it.

Sherlock’s hands are still cool against his shoulders as he settles John into position, facing the wall, arms out at shoulder-height at his sides. He remembers John’s safeword, of course, and John wonders idly if there’s a file on him somewhere, or if Sherlock just keeps everything he learns about his clients in his head. He suspects it’s the latter.

“Give me your hand,” Sherlock says, but his fingers are already curling around John’s wrist, pressing a coin against the wall and then pressing John’s middle finger against it. “Hold this here.” He purrs the words directly into John’s ear, and John can’t help but arch back a little, shivering as Sherlock’s fingers glide down his arm and across his shoulders towards his other hand. He presses another coin against the wall, making John reach a little to slide his fingers over it and leaving him spread wide in a crucifix position against the wall.

“Don’t drop them, John,” Sherlock tells him, pressing against John’s back so that John can feel the softness of his shirt, the teasing hint of warmth from Sherlock’s chest seeping through, “no matter what I do to you.”

John groans at that, grateful for the coldness of the wall against his cheek to soothe the flush that spills across his face. The temptation to curve his spine and push his hips back against Sherlock is almost overwhelming, but his arms are spread too wide for him to risk ending the game before it’s even really begun.

He expects Sherlock to pull away and start in with the flogger, but Sherlock shows very little inclination to move, resting for a moment against John’s back as though he meant to correct John’s arm position, but somehow became distracted. John leans his head against the wall and concentrates on Sherlock’s breathing, on how calm he feels already just from a simple order delivered in a perfectly commanding tone.

When Sherlock does step back, it is only to allow his hands room to move over John’s shoulders, fingers sliding over the scar on his left shoulder, and then on down his spine, warming slightly as they roam across John’s skin. The pressure is perfect, light enough to be a casual touch without straying into being ticklish, as though Sherlock is mapping the planes of John’s back, working out where best to place his wounds.

“I’m going to hurt you now,” he says, and his dry lips brush the back of John’s neck as he speaks. John almost groans again, forcing himself to concentrate on the metal disks under his fingers, keeping the tension in his hands to keep them pressed firmly against the wall.

Sherlock starts slowly, working the tails of the flogger over John’s back in a criss-cross pattern until John is warm all over, blood starting to sing with the promise of pain. He feels when Sherlock’s strokes become more deliberate, the heavy thud of the tails landing on his arse, his shoulders, the tops of his thighs. It’s not enough to break the skin, not yet, but John finds himself writhing away from the heavier thuds all the same, the coin in his right hand slipping fractionally so that he has to stretch at an awkward angle just to keep his fingers over it.

“Careful,” Sherlock warns him, and his voice is slightly ragged, his breath coming faster from exertion, “I’ve barely even started yet.”

John expects the flogger again, but instead Sherlock runs his hands down the planes of John’s back until every nerve turns electric with the delicious sting of it. It’s all he can do to focus on keeping the coins pressed to the wall, breathing hard through his nose as Sherlock’s palms press into the welts left behind by the flogger.

It hurts when Sherlock moves away, and the tails of the flogger feel sharper where they crash against his skin, hitting the same places over and over until they morph into tongues of fire in John’s mind, and his world narrows down to the sensations of his body. His shoulders ache with the tension of keeping his arms spread wide, fingers stiff where they keep the coins pressed to the wall. The pain grounds him, burns all thoughts from him mind save the urgency of keeping the coins up, of making Sherlock proud of him. When the blows stop, it takes John a long moment to register, his back transformed into a sheet of perfect fire.

“Bruises aren’t enough for you,” Sherlock muses, and John bites down on his lower lip to keep from answering. He wants teeth marks, bruises in the shape of Sherlock’s fingers on his hips. He wants it to be real and the knowledge that it isn’t sits bitter and heavy in his chest, warring with the heat Sherlock’s voice rouses in him.

He cries out when Sherlock’s hands become claw-like, the flogger falling to the floor as Sherlock rakes his hands down John’s back, short nails opening up the tiny welts in his skin. John arches into it, coins falling to the floor with a soft, metallic clang.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathes quietly, and John realises far too late what he’s done.

“Please,” he begs, not caring how desperate he sounds, arching his back and offering himself up to Sherlock’s hands. It’s an age before Sherlock puts his hands on him again, and when he runs his nails back up from the base of John’s spine, John thunks his forehead against the wall, hips rocking back and forth as much with the pain as the knowledge that it is Sherlock delivering it, intimately and deliberately.

“More?” Sherlock asks, and his breath is warm behind John’s ear, hands resting either side of John’s head on the wall.

It’s nothing to turn around, to arch away from the wall and into Sherlock’s space, tipping his head up to meet Sherlock’s lips in a kiss. For a second, Sherlock goes still, frozen where he is, still caging John against the wall. But then he moves, pushing John backwards and leaning in, sweeping his tongue across the seam of John’s lips and taking back control of the kiss. His hands move from the wall to John’s head, holding him still as his tongue slides into John’s mouth, hot and slick and perfect. John groans, hips rocking into Sherlock’s as he arches his whole body, desperate to deepen the kiss.

“Oh,” Sherlock groans, and when he pulls away, John feels the coldness in the room hit him full force. His back stings now where it was pressed against the wall, and by the time he opens his eyes and focuses, Sherlock is halfway across the room, running an agitated hand through his hair.

“That shouldn’t have happened,” he says, and his voice is cold.


End file.
